Truth
"The mirror!" 222 cried, staring at the remains of what once was a lethal weapon. "How did a rock destroy it?" He looked at Gilligan, a smug expression showing on the first mate's face, and back at the handle; he noticed a small label tucked away inside. In his language, it read "WARNING: This object can break easily if any hard projectiles are shot towards it."
Exasperated, he muttered, "And they do not put that on the outside?"
"What?" Gilligan asked.
"Oh, nothing," he mumbled, half to himself.
"That was the hardest rock in my collection!" the first mate blurted out, grinning. "Now you can't hurt my friends!"
222 dropped the handle to the ground, pulling out his pocket knife.
"Vill you please come vith me?" he asked, almost pleading, but also demanding.
"Why?"
"Because I have to take you back to the cave and interrogate your companions," 222 flipped out the knife attachment, pointing it at Gilligan.
The boy's eyes widened. He took a step forward, but immediately realized that was a mistake as his leg buckled out from under him and he yelped as he hit the ground.
222 stood frozen in place as the loud whine sounded.
Unfolding his pocket knife, he said, "I have found Gilligan."
"I have been monitoring all conversations, I already know dat!" Commandant boomed.
222 began walking. "Commandant," he began, "I th-" He was cut off as Gilligan grabbed onto his ankle, causing him to fall face-first into the puddle. As he tried to get up again, the pocket knife fell out of his hand and into the dirty liquid. Groaning, he fished it out and tried to talk into it. Nothing; it was completely ruined.
"Let me guess," he said to himself, annoyed. "This is not vater proof?" 222 picked himself up off the ground and turned to Gilligan, who still lay on the ground. His eyes flashed briefly with regret as he turned and raced off into the jungle.
"Vhat vere you about to say?" a voice asked.
"Commandant?!" 222 asked in disbelief, stopping and looking for the source.
"Your hat has speaker, in case your pocket knife vas destroyed," Commandant explained. "Vhich it vas!"
"Figures," 222 muttered. Louder, he added, "Vhy is pocket knife not vater proof?"
Seemingly unaware of the agent ever speaking, Commandant continued: "Have you captured Gilligan?"
"Not yet, Commandant," 222 reported, taking off his hat. "I-"
"Capture Gilligan!" Commandant roared. "Vhat are you vaiting for?!"
"Da, Commandant," 222 said solemnly. "Vith vhat, though?"
"Your pocket knife," Commandant said, giving an exasperated sigh; once again, 222 assumed it was static.
"But it fell in vater!" the spy exclaimed. "How can I use it?"
"You do not need de laser beam or death ray- you can use de attachments," Commandant said, though it was more of a demand than anything else.
"Da, Commandant," 222 said. Before the Commandant could say anything else, he cried, "Signing off!" and pushed the button on the top of the hat, sighing in relief when no one replied. He placed the sailor's cap back on his head, muttering, "Phooey," to himself.
Instead of turning around, he kept walking along the path- the path that led back to the camp.
"Oh, come on Mary Ann," Ginger encouraged. "You can do it!"
"Just a little bit further!" Professor cried.
Mary Ann had just squeezed her arms through the gap at the bottom of the door. She had her head through, giving her more length. She stretched out, grabbing at the key which lay on the ground just millimeters from her hand.
"You got it!" Skipper shouted. "You got it!"
Mary Ann grinned as her hand hit the key, bringing it towards her. She grabbed it with both hands and yelled, "I have it!"
"Oh!" Mrs. Howell exclaimed. "Thurston, this is so exciting! Can I help pull her in?"
"Sure, Mrs. Howell," Ginger said and she grabbed one of Mary Ann's legs. Mrs. Howell bent down and did the same, both dragging the girl back through.
"Oh, here it is, Professor!" Mary Ann said excitedly as she thrust the rather large key at the scientist.
"Thank you, Mary Ann," he said politely as he took the key from her grasp, walking back over to the door and attempting to get the key into the slot. It took a bit of time, but the Professor finally got the key into the big key hole and turned it.
The castaways waited for the loud click, but nothing happened.
"What's the matter, Professor?" asked Skipper, curious as to why the lock didn't click.
"I don't know," the Professor replied, barely loud enough for the others to hear.
Mr. Howell stepped up. "Maybe if you tinker with it a bit," he said before pushing on the door, and ending up falling flat on his face when the door swung open.
Everyone clamored over to help the millionaire, excited to be free.
"Oh, Thurston," Mrs. Howell scolded. "You shouldn't be lying in the dirt like that! It's very unsanitary."
"You did it, Mr. Howell," Mary Ann congratulated.
"It must have been unlocked!" Skipper exclaimed.
Mr. Howell's expression went blank. "Now you tell me!" he exclaimed, exasperated.
The Professor smiled sheepishly, but soon it turned into a wide, toothy grin. Everyone else was smiling, but their smiles soon faded as they remembered Gilligan and Agent 222.
"We should search the island for the two of them," the Professor immediately said, before anyone could even know what he was talking about. "We'll each take a different direction- and yell if you find anything!" And with that, he was off, leaving the others to scurry around and bump into each other. By the time they were ready to leave, the Professor was already out of sight.
Gilligan silently stared out at where 222 had disappeared into the foliage, utterly disappointed. Once again, he couldn't chase the Russian spy. He reached out, grabbing the trunk of the palm tree and lifting himself up.
"Now I'll never catch him," he murmured, dejected. He started limping in the direction that 222 had gone; realizing where he was headed, Gilligan quickened his pace, going as fast as he could without over exerting himself.
"I've gotta stop him," he whispered as he moved through the foliage, headed toward the camp.
Agent 222 parted the bamboo stalks and peered into the deserted camp. Seeing that no one else had arrived at the island, he calmly strode across the clearing, slipping through another small bit of plants before stopping at a hut labeled "Supply Hut".
"This should give me enough information vithout having to force them into saying anything," he mumbled, opening the door and peering inside.
The first thing that came to the agent's attention was a gigantic cabinet sitting in the corner; the label was smudged, so he couldn't read it. As he walked toward it, the words became clearer- "Food Locker". 222 shrugged and opened the door, but instead of the spy wear he'd been anticipating, he found nothing but fruit. He rearranged the pineapples, picked up the grapefruit, and pushed aside the bananas, but the only thing he could find was a pie pan covered by a square checkered cloth.
The spy lightly picked up the cloth, revealing a blueberry pie. One piece was missing; since it was relatively fresh, and no one was dead on the island, 222 assumed that it was safe enough as he carefully picked it up and placed it on the table a few feet behind him. He looked around the hut once more, and it stayed true to its name – all of the items in the hut were just normal supplies. The black stone chalkboard that sat by the door had several drawings of the small island in one corner, and scribbled around them were different numbers.
On the other side of the hut sat a long table covered in neatly organized beakers, test tubes and gourds; under the table was a small wooden box, but there wasn't the slightest advanced piece of equipment in the entire hut.
"This is not anything like other enemy spy hideouts," he exclaimed, not realizing how loud he was. He made his way to the table, studying its contents carefully as he walked. He bent down, picked up the small box and headed back over to the table, attempting to open it. He sat down in the chair of bamboo and palm fronds, tinkering with the top of the box until finally it came open with a pop!
222 smiled when he saw what it contained - a book labeled "Dear Diary". Opening it up, he found that the writing was almost illegible. As he was trying to decipher the bad handwriting, his free hand found its way to the blueberry pie. He involuntarily picked up a piece, taking a bite before realizing what he was doing.
Instead of spitting it out, he just swallowed and continued reading the diary. After what seemed like an eternity, 222 finally was able to read the first page. When he did, his eyes widened as he realized that the castaways were telling the truth.
